


Rupert's Birthday

by Dragonlitterchanger



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonlitterchanger/pseuds/Dragonlitterchanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months of planning and then of course this had to happen on that particular day. He would need help, even if it was costly. Mycroft found a certain birthday requiring him to juggle more than one ball at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rupert's Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EventHorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/gifts).



> Written for the greatest cross-over writer of all time, EventHorizon : I am humbled she bid for me to write a fic for the charity auction for the Freightliners farm to honour our Silverfox, Rupert Graves, on his birthday in the year 2016. Thank you for participating, thank you for buying, and finally thank you all for reading. Ok, just one more thank you: thanks for digging Mystrade. 
> 
> The promt from EventHorizon: Lestrade having a cold or getting small cut making dinner and Mycroft treating the situation as if Lestrade's been hit by a train? Or one of them trying to buy or make a gift for the other? Anything is fine, really, as long as dear Lestrade gets a nice happy ending.

  
It was the first time that work had demanded such a monumental effort on his part since he’d moved in with Mycroft after that rather epic Christmas party at the MOD. It was over a year ago now.  A year that had presented a lifestyle that was surprisingly pleasant. So cosy in fact, that so far he had always managed to make it home at night, if not exactly in time for dinner, then at least in time for bed. But that bloody Manchester gang had required him to not only work late for weeks, but to actually pull an all-nighter along with Anderson and Dimmock, huddling outside a posh hotel in the docklands for hours in the freezing cold night, too early in March to claim spring, but too late to cry winter. Thus no backup wagons, no hot chocolate, not even a cup of tea. All they’d had were some squished, sugar-covered wannabe donuts that hadn’t even bothered to pretend that they had originated from a proper bakery.  More likely they’d come from some fabric in Croydon, even though they were so dry you’d think someone had rowed them across from the States in a dingy. With one oar. To boot, the bloody bastards got away! As it turned out, it had been the wrong hotel they’d staked out all along. Sherlock had told Greg that the switch would take place on the left bank, but Dimmock had presented ‘irrefutable evidence’ that the culprits had booked rooms at the Britannia, and by the time Dimmock found out that they had in fact been at the Double Tree across the river, as Sherlock had postulated, Greg had been ready to kill him. That is, if he hadn’t been too tired and miserable to make the effort. Instead he had trudged back to his BMW and driven home in a daze of weariness, more than ready to collapse in bed. He hadn’t planned on collapsing on the staircase and create such a fuss.  
  
“MILES! MILES! RED ALERT,” Mycroft howled as he found him there seconds later on his way down to breakfast.  
  
“Ambulance is on the way, sir,” Miles said as he strode in to the hallway, having witnessed the collapse on the in-house monitor from his butler’s pantry.  
  
Mycroft did a quick check of Greg’s pulse and found it to be a tad on the slow side, but not alarmingly so. He had to make a decision on the spot. That was pretty much what he did all the time, and since this incident was particularly ill timed he held Miles off, finding a smoother, safer and faster path than the mere NHS.  
  
“Don’t let strangers in here today, please. Cancel it and get a hold of Dr Watson immediately. Send the car. Tell the driver to issue the code ‘Broadsword’ to the doctor, and tell him he has ten minutes to get here or his license to practise medicine will be limited to the Isle of Man. Call St. Barts and alert Molly Hooper to send over a full test kit.  Meanwhile, I’ll carry Gregory up to the bedroom myself right now!”  
  
As promised Mycroft bent down and picked Greg up with a fair amount of ease, wincing as the poor man whined when he was lifted. He gingerly threaded up the stairs, placing his parcel of man on the bed in the master bedroom so carefully that the cover hardly moved. Greg sighed as he felt the soft mattress under him and then shivered violently, without coming to.  
  
Mycroft proceeded to undress him, and scowled as he felt how frozen every limb was. He went to the bathroom and ran a towel under the warm water. Returning he started to dab Greg’s arms and legs with the warm cotton, working his way around the body till Greg started sighing. Then he grabbed their huge winter duvet and tucked the whole thing around the prone body till it looked like a flower covered Yule log.  
  
He looked down at the face of the occupant. Greg suddenly seemed so small and fragile in the huge bed, under the enormous cover. He tested the brow, but wasn’t happy with his findings. It was warm and clammy, and he began to worry in earnest. What on earth was keeping Dr Watson? It had been at least fifteen minutes since the car had left for him now. The kit from St. Barts had already arrived, and Miles put it on the corner table.  
  
Another excruciating two minutes later he finally heard the front door open and he yelled out through the open bedroom door for the doctor to hurry up.  
  
John took the stairs two at a time and entered the room, going directly to the bedside of the patient. “Now, what have we here?” he asked of no one in particular.  
  
“The end of your career if you don’t hurry up and examine him,” Mycroft spat. “You took ages to get here!”  
  
“Stop harassing John, we got here within a perfectly acceptable time frame,” a deep voice boomed from the doorway.  
  
“Sherlock! What are you doing here? I didn’t send for you.” Mycroft scowled at his unwelcome, younger brother.  
  
“I’m here to see that you don’t abuse John, as you are wont to do with your minions. He’s not one of them,” Sherlock warned him.  
  
“I know. He’s yours,” Mycroft retorted with a grimace. “Now John, please let me know which experts and facilities you need to cure Gregory. Anyone or anything you need, I’ll have it brought here. I’ve already required a lab for blood testing and such.” He pointed to the corner table where the microscope stood.  
  
“Thanks, but take it easy. I assume it’s serious since you used the code for nuclear attack. Broadsword, really?” John raised his eyebrows and shook his head at Mycroft. “First, tell me what happened to him,” John asked, preferring to start the patient history from the beginning.  
  
“I honestly do not know much. He came home, and apparently fainted on the staircase. I sent for you immediately. I undressed him here, and warmed his skin with a warm towel. He was freezing. And I covered him, as you can see. That’s all I know.”  
  
“Hmm, he certainly seems warm now,” John concluded after testing Greg’s forehead. “Right, let’s have a look at you, sunshine.” He opened his bag and extracted a stethoscope, pulled the cover back and listened to Greg’s heart for a minute.  
  
“Heart beat within normal range,” he informed the handwringing Mycroft who was hovering above him at that point. “So no worries on that score.”  
  
 “It could be meningitis,” Mycroft vexed, pacing back and forth by the foot-end of the bed.  
  
“It’s probably the flu,” John assured him digging out a thermometer from the bag.  
  
“Of course! Run an immediate screening for swine flu and bird flu!” Mycroft hollered at Sherlock who was setting up the kit from St. Barts, marvelling at the state of the art microscope and vast array of sample slides.  
  
“Regular flu, calm down,” John said to deaf ears as he tested Greg’s temperature, which proved to be well into the 39 something degrees.  
  
“He’s unconscious, and sweating, so can you really rule out Ebola? Can you, John? You’ve never worked on that particular continent, and poor Gregory has to interact with any manner of humans on the streets of London.  We should probably get him into an isolation tent.”  
  
“Or out of this king-size duvet. It’s practically strangling him,” John countered and pulled, tugged and discarded the ton of feathery plumes in flowery silk that had sequestered Greg, probably inhibiting his breathing and elevating his fever. He grabbed a smaller, regular blanket and covered Greg with that.  
  
“Or it could be Anthrax poisoning.” Mycroft wrung his hands. “There’s a white powder on his coat, look!” Mycroft held up the offending coat.  
  
Sherlock got up to take a quick look, dipped his finger in the powder, licked it and sneered, “Donuts. Poor quality sugar. Made in south London. Nauseating but not poisonous.” Sherlock discarded the coat and went back to the microscope.  
  
“The flu,” John insisted, working very hard to concentrate on his patient and ignoring Mycroft.  
  
“A flu virus. Oh, my God!” Mycroft exclaimed. “Please have the blood samples screened for Zika virus, just in case, Sherlock.”  
  
“Is there any major disease in the eastern and western hemisphere you haven’t worried about this morning?” John wondered.  
  
“Not quite sure. Think I should bring in an expert? They have an excellent infectious diseases consult at St. Marks,” Mycroft deadpanned him.  
  
“No! I think you should have a cup of tea and leave me to do my work, and for Sherlock to do the blood work, once you clear out of here so I can take some without worrying about you karate chopping me off his body for extracting it.”  
  
“But…” Mycroft sobbed.  
  
“OUT!” John shouted, and pointed to the door. “And you SHUT UP,” he yelled at Sherlock’s guffaw. “I need your chemistry, not your irony! Fire up that microscope and I’ll give you something to work on.” He turned to glare at Mycroft once again. “Which will simply prove he has the flu! Now go back downstairs and work on whatever major plans you have going. I saw the vans pull up. Must be big. Go do! Just DO!” John said as he turned his back on Mycroft, completely ignoring him as he pulled out a needle and sample glasses, preparing his patient with the utmost care.  
  
“But he needs me here.” Mycroft crossed his arms and stayed.  
  
“No, he doesn’t. Get out of here and leave us to work.” Sherlock got up and took his brother by the arm, leading him firmly from the room, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Mycroft took a deep breath. He took another and glared daggers at the closed door. He focused and took five and convinced himself that Sherlock really, actually, literally _would_ kill him if he barged back in there and harmed the doctor right now. More importantly, the doctor probably was the best thing that could happen to Greg and whatever was ailing him, and Sherlock probably was the best chemical assistant a doctor could have in this situation… so he stiffened his upper lip, took another very deep breath and walked awkwardly rigidly downstairs to face the other major challenge of the day.  
  
As he entered the dining room Miles met him with a plate of fresh fruit, twelve ultrathin avocado slices and a large glass of green tea. Very lightly sugared. Mycroft could have kissed him.  
  
“I am expecting an operative… an old friend, to approach the back door around…. Well, now,” Mycroft informed Miles as he took the plate and glass with a sigh of relief.  
  
“Gerald arrived seven minutes ago,” Miles reassured him with a smile. “He is installed in the study with a cup of tea and a granola bar, as usual. And he looks stunning.” Miles couldn’t help the smile, but then remembered himself. “But how is master L doing? Is the little doctor able to help him?”  
  
“Oh, he better be. But no…, well, I don’t know. It… It could be bad, but they won’t listen to me. They kicked me out! ME! Out of my own bedroom. Can you believe it?” Mycroft was dangerously close to wailing.  
  
“Ha! Afraid I can. I probably would have too. You do not have a good track record when it comes to letting experts perform in their field without you interfering.”  
  
“Miles!” Mycroft protested, looking horrified.  
  
“Well, if you don’t want my opinion, then don’t ask me,” he huffed and pushed Mycroft towards the office where Gerald was waiting. “Now go do what you do best. I’ll bring you both a diet latte in a little while. Now, move, sir, if you’d please.”   
  
Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of eating the avocado and downing half the tea before entering the room where his top man awaited him. He opened the door, and put on his best smile. “Gerald! You old so and so! How the hell are you managing the nightmare I’m putting you through?  And don’t push it… I already have you on a pension level slightly above the queens, so there’s not more I can do. Miles fed you well?”  
  
Gerald Hallander swirled his long golden hair around and pursed his lips, bending down to give Mycroft a token kiss on the cheek.  A kiss most men would have killed for.  
  
Mycroft was, however, not impressed by the looks. What impressed him was the utter dedication, the ultimate sacrifice that Gerald had made for the service. A feat that had earned him Mycroft’s admiration and respect, way beyond any other agent. The looks, he knew only too well, could be ascribed to unlimited funds, surgeons, hairdressers, stylists, coaches and in the future – probably – more psychology sessions than any agent had ever had to undergo. But for now Gerald was placed exactly where they wanted him.  Where he could do the most for the nation. Their talk was very beneficial. And very secret. _(So secret that you, dear reader, will not be privy to it.) (Yet.)_  
  
It was an hour later when Mycroft emerged from the office. He stopped by the kitchen to check on proceedings, and Miles assured him that everything was going according to plan, the caterers were there, the cleaners and decorators hard at work, and the spies that had thought they had gone unnoticed for the last two months were still installed in the old church across the road. Mycroft sighed, containing his fury he looked forwards to his revenge instead. Satisfied that everything was well on the way he hurried up the stairs and entered the bedroom. John was packing up and Sherlock was playing with the microscope, and the corner was an incredible mess of sample slides.  
  
“Ah, hello Mycroft,” John said as he looked up and saw him. “We’re all done here. Ready to go home.”  
  
“What? No? You can’t go. Who’s going to treat Gregory?” Mycroft panicked lightly, looking at the still body on the bed. “Have you even diagnosed him yet?”  
  
“Yes, of course I have.” John closed his bag with a snap.  
  
“ _We_ have,” Sherlock corrected him while crushing a bit of Mycroft’s bath-salt with a pen, shoving it on to another sample slide.  
  
“Yes, thank you for your immense effort, Sherlock. I’m sure it took all of your wits to test the blood for infections,” John countered.  
  
“What did you find, Sherlock?” Mycroft demanded, his hearth suddenly in his throat, his pulse uncomfortably fast.  
  
“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, already absorbed in the crystals forming under the microscope. “Oh, him…?” He gestured vaguely towards the bed. “Nothing, nothing at all, nothing infectious. Rather boring, actually.”  
  
“What does that mean? John? What’s wrong with him? Why is he still unconscious then?”  
  
“He’s unconscious because he is running a fever of 39,7 and has been up all night, getting chilled and starved, and generally fucking about with his body where he should have read the signs and gone home to bed to rest!”  
  
“So what is it?” Mycroft was running out of patience.  
  
“It’s what I said of course. The flu! Just keep him in bed, with plenty of fluids to drink. When he wakes up, of course. Water preferably. Not too much tea, that’ll just make him piss. Absolutely no beer, no matter how much he begs. He should sleep for another six to eight hours now, but then he’ll wake up, feeling like crap,” John explained.  
  
“So what can I do for him?” Mycroft worried.  
  
“Keep him in bed, give him some pain killers, I’ve left a pack by the bed. They’re also fever reducing. Mainly just let him sleep. In two or three days he should be feeling better, and in a week or so he can go back to work.”  
  
“Right. Can do… except,” Mycroft made a face, “except tonight. I’m afraid I can’t mind him then, and nor can Miles, so you will have to do it, John.”  
  
“What? No! I have plans,” John protested.  
  
“Nooo,” Mycroft informed him in his don’t-argue-with-me-voice.  
  
“I really do. I’m meeting mates for beer!” John was determined to hold his own.  
  
“Are you?” Sherlock looked up. He looked surprised. “That’s boring for me. What if I need you for something? Then we may as well be here, minding Lestrade.”  
  
“You’re just saying that because you want to play with that fancy microscope,” John accused him.  
  
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock admitted. “And I also want to find out what it is my brother is up to. He’s clearly not telling us about it now, but he will once the evening is over. Right, Mycroft?”  
  
“Of course, little brother. If you take proper care of Gregory.”  
  
“I’m sure we can manage to let him sleep, and give him a glass of water. Even in that order. Mind you, it’ll cost you.” Sherlock looked longingly at the microscope.  
  
“Have you lost your faculties, Sherlock? That costs more than 10.000 pounds! For one night of babysitting?” Mycroft had taken on a slight shade of red.  
  
“Fine, if you’d rather manage him yourself,” Sherlock got up.  
  
“No! No. Very well, you extortionist. You _know_ I need you here tonight. You can have the precious microscope. Tomorrow!”  
  
“Thanks, brother dear!” Sherlock smiled broadly and fondled the microscope possessively, and John groaned, knowing his evening out had just been sold down the river.

\---*---

Around eight o’clock most of the guests had arrived for the cocktail party. Mycroft looked stunning in a casual outfit, tan jacket with a soft velvet collar, light beige shirt and the only informal tie his wardrobe could produce. He very much regretted that Greg couldn’t be by his side this particular evening, but at least he could play it back to him when he was well. There was no shortage of active cameras in the house after all.  
  
Miles directed the hired-in waiters to circulate between the mingling guests serving marinated olives, blinis with caviar, fried mozzarella balls, Pancetta-wrapped figs, crab cakes, Maki rolls, Wonton cups, chocolate truffles and stuffed strawberries. The dining room had been converted to a long bar where three bartenders catered to any taste from the printed drinks menu.  
  
When the guest of honour arrived Mycroft straightened his back and plastered his best fake smile on his face, welcoming the birthday ‘boy’ to his home  
  
He was met by an equally broad, corresponding fake smile. “So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes. May I present my wife, Jerry,” Mr Murdoch said pointing to his very tall, almost too beautiful wife.  
  
“Nice to see you again,” Mycroft bowed and lightly shook the well-manicured, slender hand.  
  
“Oh. You two have met before?” Murdoch was instantly suspicious.  
  
“Indeed, you may even say we have some history.” Mycroft smiled broadly , and it wasn’t at all fake.  
  
“Really? You? I thought you weren’t normal. Well, in that sense, you know. One of those boys. Aren’t you?” Murdoch enquired brazenly.   
  
“Well, that’s rather nobody’s business but mine, wouldn’t you say?” Mycroft snubbed him.  
  
“Well, it’s my business to make other people’s business mine,” Murdoch countered.  
  
“Indeed, so it is,” Mycroft’s smile returned to the level he normally reserved for the beetles he occasionally had to forcibly remove from his precious orchids. “Let me show you around my home, in any case.” He gestured for the couple to follow him as they did a quick tour of the downstairs rooms and ended up by the bar.  
  
“Nice digs. Still don’t get why you’re hosting a birthday party for me. It’s not like you’ve seemed to fancy my company the few times we’ve met.” The revelation didn’t stop Murdoch from taking a plate of blinis from one of the waiters, keeping it for himself as he dug into it. “Any decent beer in the bar?”  
  
“I’m sure we can conjure up a Foster’s for you,” Mycroft nodded to the bartender that had been listening, and a chilled bottle found its way to the bar-top almost immediately.  
  
“That’s mighty hospitable of you, but you still haven’t explained yourself. And such a spread. More than I expected, frankly.”  
  
“Oh, is there a need to explain? Can’t you imagine that I just wanted to meet you for your personality?”  
  
“Frankly, no. Unless you think I’m a poofter too… But still, my recent marriage should convince anyone otherwise, eh?” he said as he pinched Jerry on the buttocks, which earned him a wry smile.  
  
“Let me hasten to assure you, that I have not invited you here in the hopes that you are a… poofter.” Mycroft loathed the word and didn’t hesitate to let it show.  
  
“Then why? Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. There’s loads of people here tonight that I’d like to know more about, quite a social circle you keep.”  
  
“Hmm, yes. All good friends. Of mine. But would you really like to know why I invited you here?”  
  
“Yes, spill the beans, out with it. I don’t like mysteries,” Murdoch said and downed half his beer.  
  
“Fine then. I think we should go to my office for this talk. Jerry, do please come along,” Mycroft said and wandered off, not bothering to check if Murdoch was following. He knew he would be.  
  
“Have a seat,” Mycroft offered as he gestured to the deep leather chair, seating himself on the edge of his desk. Jerry sat down on the chair opposite Murdoch.  
  
“So, why are you alone here tonight? Where’s your… live-in-friend?” Murdoch asked as he leant back in the chair, crossing his legs in front of him.  
  
“Unable to attend, I regret. I am sure he would have liked to have been here.” Mycroft poured a cognac for himself and Jerry, handing one to her and leaning back on his desk again, swirling his drink. “But I do owe you that explanation.” He took a sip of his cognac and started, “I asked you here because two months ago I observed two men observing me.  They were very badly concealed and even worse dressed, so they couldn’t be professionals of my own… level. It took the merest effort to find out that they came from The Sun. One of yours, I believe.”  
  
“Indeed it is. A nice little profitable venture,” Murdoch nodded.  
  
“And my suspicion is, that they are here to, shall we say, gawk on my private life. To learn what is nobody’s business but mine.” Mycroft’s smile was fading slightly.  
  
“But this is where you’re wrong,” Murdoch sat up a little, secure in his element, loving his ownership of what was and what wasn’t comme il faut – according to his standards. “You may be so high up in the government that you know which knickers the Queen wears, but you’re still a public employee. And the public has a right to know that someone so closely associated with Her Majesty, and with so much power in the secret services that no one seems to know exactly how much, is shagging up with a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard! It’s bloody indecent, if you ask me.”  
  
“But I’m not,” Mycroft informed him.  
  
“Not shagging up?”  
  
“Not asking you. Frankly, I don’t care what you think.”  
  
“But you should care what the great British majority think, and they won’t approve,” he huffed.  
  
“Because you’ll tell them what to think, presumably?”  
  
“Darn right. That’s what I do best.”  
  
“Good for you. Would you like to know what I do best?” Mycroft’s smile was finding its way back.  
  
“I assume you are at the top of the vagina decliners in this town, but I really don’t want to know any details, please,” he held up a forestalling hand.  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. I only know a few. Some of them are in the room next door, but the majority in there are quite ‘normal’ people,” he said, mimicking the quotation marks, “with just one thing in common. They have all been featured in your stories, or have had their marriages ruined, or their jobs, or their children’s lives damaged by you. Let’s just say, there is no love lost.”  
  
“So what? I have tons of enemies. If they hate my guts so, why would they turn up at my birthday cocktail party? To see me break down and regret everything because the scream queen told me so?” He laughed. “I’ve never been scared of no poofter. They command no respect, and no proper Australian, or even an Englishman for that matter, will care either. You can’t touch me, chocolate driller.”  
  
“You really hate gays?” Mycroft was struggling to hold back his snicker.  
  
“Personally, I don’t give much of a damn one way or another, as long as they keep their paws off me, but the general public thinks very little of guys like you. There’s good money in the news industry by keeping those scandals alive, particularly in the states, but it works just fine here too. So if you think you can scare me out of putting you, or any of your friends out there in the headlines, you are sorely mistaken.”  
  
Mycroft couldn’t hold back an outright laugh. “And how would _you_ think if some of the other… sombre papers like the Daily Mail or the Star, or even actual newspapers like Metro or The Guardian headlined you as the gayest man in England?”  
  
“You utter gronk! Have you completely lost your marbles, you tosser?“ It was Murdoch’s turn to laugh.

“I most certainly have not. Not at all. “ Mycroft didn’t even bother to hide his snicker at this point. “Would you like to meet _the_ top agent of MI5, the agent you have been sleeping with for six months?“ Mycroft moved behind Jerry and patted her on the shoulder.

“An agent? Really?” He looked doubtful. “But even if she’d managed to pull my leg like that, what has she got to do with being gay?” Murdoch looked thoroughly confused.  “I thought you said you’d get them to call _me_ gay. Or are you calling my wife a lickerty split?”  
  
“Oh, certainly not.” By now both Mycroft and Jerry Hall were laughing, and Mycroft gestured for Jerry to stand up.  
  
“Rupert Murdoch, meet undercover agent Gerald Hallander. Your wife.” Mycroft couldn’t contain himself any longer and howled with laughter while patting Gerald on the back.  
  
“Are you trying to tell me I’ve been rooting a man? No way. I would have known that! I’ve been around the block once or twice, you know. Not to mention she’s quite a famous woman. ”  
  
“Gerald has had a lot of surgery, a lot!” Mycroft told him as Gerald nodded emphatically. “It wasn’t quite perfect the first time around, but it was enough to convince a hardly ever sober Mick Jagger.”  
  
“Why would you… what would be the point? I don’t believe a word you’re saying.  Why should the MI5 fabricate a woman for Mick Jagger? You’re making up a story they wouldn’t even print in the Mail. And that’s saying quite a lot,” he guffawed.  
  
“We had our reasons. Enough to say that Her Majesty was not too pleased with how some members of the Beatles handled the honours they were given. We, well my predecessor actually, found it prudent to find ways to control The Rolling Stones before they could go the way of the Beatles. Supplant a Jerry Hall for a Yoko Ono, you might say.” Mycroft’s sudden serious-business face had Murdoch worrying a bit.  
  
“But why not find a beautiful woman you could control? Or a pretty agent you already had?” he ventured, still clinging to his doubts.  
  
“Have you ever seen a woman as beautiful as a man as a woman? Have you ever really looked at a drag queen? Seriously? Not to mention, have you ever tried to control a female agent over a lengthy period? They want children, husbands, homes… not unreasonable demands, but we needed someone who was in it for the long haul. There was no telling how long we’d have to control The Stones. Besides, Gerald actually really wanted to try it.”  
  
“But the kids?”  
  
“Oh, do give us some credit!” Mycroft wasn’t going to honour that level of naiveté with an answer.  
  
“You’re saying they’re adopted?”  
  
Mycroft just shook his head and shrugged.  
   
“No one would believe you.” He tried one last line of defence. “Mick Jagger will bear witness that you are lying. He’d never admit to living with a man for twenty years.”  
  
“Are you really a newspaper man? You don’t know how many male lovers Jagger had? Truly?” Mycroft shook his head in dismay; he had expected more of his opponent. “Besides, Mick really loved ‘her’. Even though he found out that Jerry wasn’t exactly 100% woman. He even tried for a marriage, but it was annulled when some unfortunate proof of Jerry being Gerald turned up in the Supreme Court. That bit of information was suppressed from the public, though. Since then, Gerald has had a nice fifteen year long holiday, till I called him back to service. To ensnare you.”  
  
“And it was hardly worthy of my talent, Mycroft,” Gerald smirked. “It was like taking candy from a baby.”  
  
“You shall be very well rewarded,” Mycroft promised.  
  
“But why? Why this elaborate ruse to trap me?” Murdoch wailed.  
  
“Because you threatened the happiness of the most important man in the world!” Mycroft screamed at him with unexpected fury. “Because you went too far! You crossed the line of no return with just one person too many. You should have retired completely when you had the chance. The nation may possibly have forgiven you for the phone-hacking scandals, but bigots like yourself has made damned sure they won’t forgive a gay man posing as a straight shooter among them, while filling his headlines with judgmental homophobic indoctrination.”  
  
“So? I’m in good faith. Who wouldn’t have married her? Who wouldn’t think she was a woman?” Murdoch countered, gesturing at the beautiful sixty year old woman-man in front of him.  
  
“Oh, we can show good proof that Gerald is a man. What isn’t obvious now, can be made so very quickly. We have top surgeons at our disposal. And lots of photos of Gerald when he was a handsome young man.  Yes, you’ll make some pretty headlines in The Guardian, and very quickly you’ll be deleted from contact files, address books and i-phones.” Mycroft was getting bored with the Australian and wanted to get back to his love upstairs.  
  
“What do you expect me to do?” Murdoch finally said, feeling tired and defeated.  
  
“I expect you to retire to Australia, leave the daily running of your company to your wife…”  
  
“I’m not keeping her… it!” he protested.  
  
“No, he’ll not stay with you. Don’t worry. But I have promised him a hefty reward for coming back into the field, and you are going to provide it.”  
  
“Or else?” Murdoc snorted.  
  
“Or else everyone in this house will tell of what they have heard tonight. There are seven cameras in here, and monitors in every room in the house. This conversation has been shared with the people in Britain who have the best reasons to hate your guts. And every one of them will be very happy to be the one to call The Guardian, unless you… disappear quietly. In which case they will stay as silent as I shall.”  
  
Murdoch simply glared at him.  
  
There was a knock at the door.  
  
“Come in, Miles.”  
  
“The car is here for the… guest. Shall I direct him to go straight to the airport?” the butler asked.  
  
“You must be fucking kidding!” Murdoch spluttered.  
  
“Yes, yes. We’re not savages. You’ll have four days to pack what you want, hand your keys over to Gerald and catch a flight back to the old penal colonies. You will not be allowed back in England again, however, I can’t imagine you have many friends who will miss you. Goodbye, _mister_ Murdoch,” Mycroft said as he gestured for Gerald to precede him out the door. As they re-entered the living rooms Murdoch could hear the roar of applause when the guests spotted the pair. He quietly and quickly followed Miles out to his car.

\---*---

  
“How is he?” Mycroft whispered as he crept into the bedroom upstairs.  
  
“Asleep again,” John assured him. “Otherwise little change. He did wake up in between, and he’s drunk a fair amount of water.”  
  
“Good, good. Eaten anything?”  
  
“Well, he did manage a piece of toast, but to be fair, it came up again, so I won’t count that,” John said with sympathy.  
  
“Did he hear any of ‘the talk’?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“Yes, most of it. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile as broadly as when you roared at the idiot,” John smiled.  
  
“Not a half bad plan, even though I had of course figured it out ages ago,” Sherlock said, grimacing as he realised he’d almost given his brother a compliment.  
  
“Of course you had, little brother,” Mycroft allowed. “Now you two can go home, I’ll take it from here. I expect to see you back at eight in the morning for a check-up though.”  
  
“You know my bill is going to be humungous, right Mycroft?” John informed him.  
  
“Nonsense. I’ve already paid you in way of that microscope.”  
  
“How does that benefit me?” John wailed.  
  
“I would have thought that a happy Sherlock makes for a happy home,” Mycroft held the door open for them. “That should be reward enough in itself for you, John. Eight o’clock then. Goodnight.”  
  
He could hear John’s grumbles all the way down the stairs. He happily ignored them and undressed, slipping in to bed next to a burning warm Greg. He threw away the blanket and sheets and got a fresh set, making the bed a little more comfortable and tried again. He smiled when Greg sighed and nuzzled up to him, and he kissed the burning forehead lightly.  
  
“Ummm, you ferocious freedom fighter of mine. Have you roasted your Australian enough, you think?” Greg managed a weak smile as he stretched sore muscles a bit, using that as an excuse to lay his arm across Mycroft’s chest.  
  
“If it’s enough for you, it’s good enough for me,” Mycroft offered.  
  
“Oh, I’m good. All I’d said was that it was bloody annoying having those paparazzi hanging around. I didn’t expect the party to end all parties. Goodbye Rupert Murdoch. Speaking off… I’m so bloody sorry I missed it. All that work and I just lay up here. I should have taken better care of myself.”  
  
“Yes, you should. And I trust you will in future.” Mycroft poked his nose emphatically. “So, my love, is there anyone else bothering you that you’d like to get rid of?” Mycroft joked.  
  
“Hmm. Let’s just see how Arsenal is doing in the Champions League first, ok?” Greg smiled and fell asleep again, dreaming of barbeques and footballs.

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of apologies to Jerry Hall. I was just playing with her.


End file.
